<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>he always tells the truth by witching</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599720">he always tells the truth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching'>witching</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>oxford comma [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Autistic Jonathan Sims, Autistic Martin Blackwood, Awkward Conversations, Canon-typical voyeurism, Creeper Elias Bouchard, Crying, Drinking, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Guilt, Happy Ending, Humor, Kissing, Loneliness, Love Confessions, M/M, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, POV Jonathan Sims, Pining, Poetry, Protectiveness, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Self-Hatred, Singing, Trans Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:39:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The sound of a tape recorder running is as easy as a heartbeat nowadays, so familiar that it doesn’t even register as worthy of noticing, even when it very much should not be happening. Everyone else seems to notice, which is good, because it means that when Jon is around people, it’s easier to catch them. Everyone also seems to think Jon’s doing it on purpose somehow, which is. Less good.<br/>The real problem is that he doesn’t really spend that much time around people these days."</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain &amp; Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker &amp; Jonathan Sims, Gerard Keay &amp; Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan Sims &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Melanie King &amp; Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>oxford comma [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>608</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. check your handbook, it's no trick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>inspired by <a href="https://martindykewood.tumblr.com/post/613841916429254656/hello-jon-themed-ask-he-sometimes-talks-to">this ask</a> i got on tumblr that made me very emo<br/>i wrote this fic with loose references to a season three setting. i tried to maintain a sensible timeline but i did not try very hard because i do not care that much. do not @ me i am simply having fun<br/>canon divergence is for the fact that i'm disregarding everything sad that happens at the end of season three<br/>work title &amp; chapter titles from vampire weekend's "oxford comma" bc honestly why not?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sound of a tape recorder running is as easy as a heartbeat nowadays, so familiar that it doesn’t even register as worthy of noticing, even when it very much should not be happening. Everyone else seems to notice, which is good, because it means that when Jon is around people, it’s easier to catch them. Everyone also seems to think Jon’s doing it on purpose somehow, which is. Less good. </p><p>Jon records a lot of things himself, so it's a fair assumption; he likes to keep a tape recorder around, and he likes to keep it on as much as possible. Then there are the recorders that come at useful times, on the occasions when he doesn't have his own with him, tokens of Beholding that he finds he's quite grateful for, watching and listening and soaking in knowledge. Those recorders stay after they're done recording, so Jon can keep the tapes for posterity.</p><p>And then there are the other ones. The other ones appear seemingly at random and disappear just as quickly. When there are people around, these recorders never last more than a few seconds. As soon as someone sees or hears one, it's gone. When there aren't people around, Jon generally doesn't notice them at all, and that's a bit of a problem, maybe.</p><p>The real problem is that he doesn’t really spend that much time around people these days. He tries to avoid being near Georgie too much. He loves her, but – no, not but. He loves her, and that’s <em> why </em>he needs to keep his distance. A few times, she’s been around when it happens, but mostly she’s not.</p><p>It’s a bit unnerving the first time Jon hears it himself. Possibly because it’s also the first time it’s happened when truly nothing is happening. Usually when they pop up of their own accord, it’s because something important is going on, but this time there’s nothing. It should be more than a bit unnerving, but he doesn’t think too hard about it, really. The Admiral is curled up against his thigh and Jon is fiddling with a loose thread in his sock, not watching or reading or doing anything at all. </p><p>He’s tired. Resting. Letting himself breathe, letting himself feel like a human, letting himself be still and bask in the quiet for a little bit. It’s almost working. Almost, not quite, because he can still feel his thoughts like rushing rapids tucked away in the corner of his mind where he tries to put them, to keep them from overwhelming him.</p><p>Jon has always been good at compartmentalizing, but there are too many compartments to keep track of, these days. Too many different kinds of weird to keep locked up inside of him. </p><p>“Why do things have to be so difficult?” he says aloud – to himself, to the Admiral, to the empty room. The sound of his voice is stark against the silence, so when he stops talking and the silence is less silent than before, he notices immediately. “I swear to – can’t have a <em> minute </em> to myself,” he mutters irritably, searching the room with his eyes to find the tape recorder. “Where do these things keep <em> coming </em>from?”</p><p>The recorder doesn’t answer. Of course. He almost expects it to, which is indicative more of his deteriorating mental state than anything else. Further evidence: he keeps talking, for some inexplicable reason.</p><p>“Are you just curious?” he asks, voice high and a bit fond, enough like talking to a pet that it makes the Admiral’s head perk up. “You just want to listen?”</p><p>After a moment, he spots it, atop a stack of books on the entertainment center, as if it belongs there. It whirs and spins and Jon smiles at it, shifting to reach for it. </p><p>“Things are very interesting here in the Barker household,” he says directly to the tape recorder, like he’s making a statement. “I’ve been wearing the same sweatpants for four days. The Admiral knocked over a glass of water this morning and I cleaned it up. I haven’t been in contact with any friends lately, if I can even be said to have friends – it’s just Georgie. She’s putting up with me like a champ.”</p><p>The Admiral pipes up a soft chirp at the mention of Georgie’s name. “I know,” Jon replies, “she is the best. You love her, don’t you, Admiral? Yeah. Me too.”</p><p>He gets self conscious about that almost immediately, eyes going wide, hands tensing on his thighs. “I mean – she’s a good friend. A very good friend, and I’m very grateful for her help and – and her trust. And companionship. I love her like a friend. Don’t worry.”</p><p>Who does he think is worrying? Who does he think is listening?</p><p>“If you’re listening to this, I hope you’re enjoying it,” he says wearily, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly prime entertainment.”</p><p>The tape stops abruptly, conspicuously, and Jon turns his head to look at the recorder only to find that it isn’t there anymore. Maybe he was imagining it the whole time. He can’t really be sure of anything. </p><p>“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces, and the Admiral remains aloof as ever.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think about the tape again for a while. It’s one of those things that just happens now, and that’s fine. Or, it’s not fine, but he can’t stop it and he can’t explain it, so he doesn’t see the point in dwelling on how fucking weird it is. </p><p>Jon talks to himself almost incessantly, day and night, and the tapes pop up here and there. He tries to turn them off, he tries to throw them out the window, he tries removing the tape, removing the batteries – none of it works. They keep coming back, and they only go away when they decide they’re satisfied.</p><p>It’s unclear exactly when, but at some point Jon makes the assumption that Elias is behind them, whether he’s actually making them appear or just getting a hold of the tapes after the fact to listen to Jon’s musings. There’s no doubt in his mind that Elias has that ability, and even less doubt that he would use it like this. </p><p>Jon knows he has some modicum of freaky Beholding talent himself, but he can’t for the life of him figure out how to hone them into something he can control, not the way Elias can, not the way the Eye does. He decides he’s alright with it, all things considered. Elias could be doing much worse, and if he wants to hear the conversations Jon has with inanimate objects, then more power to him.</p><p>Not <em> actually </em> more power, though, Heaven <em> forbid. </em> </p><p>Depending on his mood, Jon deals with the appearance of a new tape recorder in one of two ways. If he’s feeling good, he’ll have some fun with it. If he’s not, then… he won’t.</p><p> </p><p>One day, Georgie makes French toast and leaves a plate on the counter for him, aluminum foil covering it and a green sticky note beside it reading <em> Breakfast! ❤︎ </em></p><p>Jon has had a shower and a change of clothes and he's hanging out with the Admiral and enjoying his breakfast when he hears the telltale whirring sound. He grins like a snake, takes a sip of his tea, and starts to ham it up a bit. If he's going to have these things listening in on him, he may as well be a good source of entertainment.</p><p>“Admiral, sir, have you ever wondered about French toast? There’s not a lot of common knowledge about it, because usually people are too busy enjoying it to ask questions.” He makes his point by popping a bite into his mouth, letting out a rapturous moan, making like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.</p><p>“The one thing people do often wonder,” he continues matter-of-factly, “is whether or not French toast is actually French. In fact, the earliest known mention of a dish that we would call French toast is in a Roman book of cookery known as the <em> Apicius, </em> which can be dated as far back as the first century.”</p><p>The Admiral is lying on the kitchen counter, looking utterly at peace and thoroughly bored, but that doesn’t faze Jon. “The interesting thing about the <em> Apicius </em>is that it was compiled using a mixture of Classical and Vulgar Latin,” he explains in a stuffy, studious voice, one that comes extremely naturally to him. “Recipes were added over centuries, with new versions of the text being produced through the Middle Ages. The original text dictates that the bread should be soaked in milk and eggs, fried in oil, and covered in honey.</p><p>“I like that way, myself,” Jon continues, more conversational than before, sounding as if he thinks he’s saying the most interesting thing in the world. “It’s much more palatable than eating it with syrup, if you ask me. Real maple syrup, that can be good in some circumstances, but I prefer it on pancakes, and that other – substance – that they call syrup, table syrup or breakfast syrup, I believe – it’s disgusting. Like they’re trying to put as much sugar as possible into one bottle of sticky horror.”</p><p>Jon pauses to shoot a quick grin in the direction of the tape recorder, sees it still spooling away and shrugs, raises his eyebrows. If it wants to hear all this, then who is he to deny it? </p><p>“French toast, though,” he says, shaking his head and getting back on track, “does have a rich history. It’s known across the world and in many different languages by a variety of names, including golden bread, lost bread, German toast, furry bread, eggy bread, and poor knights.</p><p>“Now, I will admit I don’t know the origins of all these alternative names, though some are self explanatory. I would be interested in an exploration of the traditions regarding French toast, how some variation of it appears in almost every human civilization, sometimes independently and sometimes through cultural diffusion. </p><p>“Personally, I’m fond of <em> pain perdu, </em> lost bread. They call it that because it’s a good use for old bread, saves you from having to throw it out, you know? And it takes the egg mixture better, soaks up more without falling apart.” </p><p>He stops again, takes another bite of his French toast and another sip of his tea, scratches the Admiral right between his ears the way he likes it. He starts purring loudly and Jon smiles at him, scrunching his nose. “Our Georgie,” he continues in a tone dripping with fondness, “likes to make French toast with whatever’s left of last week’s challah, before she starts a new batch. Three loaves every Sunday, because she’s just so diligent and nurturing, isn’t she, Admiral?”</p><p>Jon snaps his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth, looking surreptitiously at the recorder. He’s not so caught up in his little show that he can’t recognize the profoundly embarrassing nature of what he’s just said. Apparently, he has a problem with oversharing, just – only with tape recorders, not real people. What a revelation to have on a Friday morning.</p><p>Well, he reassures himself, at least there’s a very slim chance that Georgie will ever hear this tape. Jon can only hope that none of his other friends get a hold of it, either. A brief image flashes across his mind of Tim listening to him wax poetic about Georgie’s domestic habits – even if Tim hates him now, even if their relationship is unsalvageable, he’s positive he would never live it down.</p><p>Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He misses being mocked relentlessly for any display of emotion, he misses the snide comments and the unsubtle eye-rolls. </p><p>“I miss Tim,” he mumbles rather pathetically, laying his cheek against the counter to bring himself level with the Admiral’s face. “I miss Martin. I miss Sasha. Fuck, I think I miss Melanie,” he sighs, pushing back up on his elbows and burying his face in his hands. </p><p>It takes another moment for Jon to realize he’s just embarrassed himself terribly, <em> again. </em> He drags his fingers down his cheeks and blows out a deep, exhausted breath, looks up again only to see that the tape recorder is gone.</p><p>Hm. That’s a relief.</p><p> </p><p>When Jon comes back to Georgie’s flat after a rare day spent in the Archives, all he wants – literally, the only thing he wants in the entire world – is to go to sleep. There is absolutely nothing appealing about consciousness. He’s nursing a nasty migraine – the effect of overworking himself, seven different flavors of guilt, and an inevitable row with Tim – and now he can’t bring himself to eat or drink anything, hardly even bothers toeing his shoes off before falling face down on the bed.</p><p>So the sound of the tape recorder spinning is absolutely not a welcome intrusion. He can’t ignore it, the noise so grating that it feels like it’s coming from inside his skull, and when he tries covering his ears with a pillow, he finds that his knowledge of its presence is just as bad.</p><p>“What do you want from me?” he snaps, rolling over to face the ceiling, refusing to look for or at the tape. “Haven’t I done enough for you today? I recorded statements, I did research, I – I don’t know why you’re so interested in me, but I’m not doing anything! I’m not doing a single fucking thing right now, and I won’t start for your sake!”</p><p>The tape keeps spinning. </p><p>“Fine. Fine,” Jon grunts, feeling angrier than he’s felt in a long time. “You want to hear about the bullshit I endured today? Because that’s all I’ve got, and it’s the only thing I’m giving you.”</p><p>He tries not to believe that he hears the recorder laugh at him, but it’s difficult when the whirring is so damned smug. “I went to the Institute this morning because I wanted to be helpful, you know? I wanted to get something done, alright? But – it’s impossible to get <em> anything </em> done around there, with how… <em> tense </em>everyone is.”</p><p>He hesitates, rolls his eyes at himself, his readiness to vent to a tape recorder, as well as his euphemistic phrasing. <em> Tense </em>apparently is the term for all of his friends and coworkers hating, distrusting, and resenting him to the point of rage, silence, or hurt.</p><p>“Elias left a statement on my desk, because of <em> course </em> he knew I would be coming in, and of <em> course </em> he had work prepared for me to do, and of course he couldn’t just bloody <em> tell </em>me anything about it, that would make too much sense.” Jon squeezes his eyes shut against a fresh wave of nausea, a feeling like seasickness. “So I – I sat down to record the statement, it was another one about the Stranger, nothing too out of the ordinary.”</p><p>How fucked is Jon’s life that a statement about Halloween masks sticking to people’s faces and turning them into the depicted subject is something he doesn’t find <em> too out of the ordinary? </em> He lets out a loud groan, shakes his head, then thinks better of that when it makes his entire being hurt.</p><p>“Then I did research for six fucking hours straight, looking for <em> anything </em> to shed <em> any </em> light on <em> any </em>of this, and I found nothing, of course. Strained my eyes and didn’t eat or drink or move for the better part of the day, gave myself a migraine from hell, and not a single thing to show for it.</p><p>“I talked to Basira for a little bit, nothing new there. We’re all struggling, but there’s no – there’s no new useful information since the last time we spoke,” he says tiredly. It’s been the same story for far too long and he’s sick of it. “Then, erm. Martin stopped in to talk, and he… he doesn’t seem to be doing so well. He was more nervous than usual, and that’s saying a lot. Told me he wished I were around more, which… I mean, me too, but I’m trying my best, I’m trying to <em> fix </em>all of this. It just – it hurts me to know that he’s hurting because of me.”</p><p>Well, that’s a bit new. Jon frowns, bites his lip, thinks deeply on it for a long minute. It’s the truth, but he’s never really thought it in so many words, and he’s certainly never said it aloud. Saying it to himself is one thing, but the fact that the tape recorder is listening makes him so uncomfortable that he can’t breathe for a moment. </p><p>He presses forward, unwilling to dwell on it for longer than necessary. “And then I was – I was leaving, you know, I was on my way out, and I ran into Tim, because… well, because I can’t just have a hard day, apparently, it has to be catastrophic.” He’s being dramatic, whining about a series of petty frustrations, and it makes him feel ridiculous, but it also makes him feel better, just a bit.</p><p>“Tim said… I mean, he didn’t say a lot. But he was angry, of course, and I… I got defensive. Unfortunately.” That’s rich, he thinks, to frame it like something he couldn’t control, rather than the product of a bad personality, a bad attitude, and a lot of bad decisions on his part. </p><p>“He took the time to stop me to talk to me, though, and he usually just avoids me, so – I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.” Jon pauses as the argument with Tim comes up fresh in his mind.</p><p>
  <em> (“I’m sorry,” he said, before anything else, before Tim could start in on him. If he was going to yell, that was fine, Jon deserved it, but he needed to apologize, and he needed to know that Tim heard him. “Tim, I’m really, really sorry.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you?” Tim’s voice was bitter and sharp. “What for?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I mean – for, for everything?” Jon stammered. “Sorry for not trusting you, not listening to you, not being there for you. Sorry for leaving you to deal with this mess. You deserve better.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, I do.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Just… is there any way I can make this easier for you? I want to help. I want to be better.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tim narrowed his eyes shrewdly and stayed silent for far too long. “No,” he said at last. “No, there’s nothing you can do. You’re already gone.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Tim…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “All I want you to do is stop making things worse.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jon swallowed hard, nodding his head, reminding himself he deserved every bit of Tim’s anger and more. “I am trying,” he said, a broken whisper. “I’m trying to figure out what’s going on around here, so that I can –,” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What, fix it?” Tim snapped, his eyes boring down to Jon’s soul. “You can’t. You can’t fix any of it, and the more you try, the more you get sucked into it. You’re doing exactly what it wants, Jon, don’t you see that?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes, I – I know,” said Jon, distressed. “But I think it’s worth it, to a certain extent, in exchange for some real knowledge about all of this.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s not.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Something big is happening, Tim. Something scary.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yeah,” Tim laughed without a trace of mirth. “It’s you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jon bit his lip, giving Tim a wounded look. “If my humanity is what it costs to stop whatever this is, then so be it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh, don’t be a fucking martyr.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Are you saying you disagree?” Jon ground out, his gaze hardening. It wasn’t a fair question, not at all, and he regretted it as soon as he asked, but he still pressed on. “Do you think me getting free of this mess is more important than trying to save people?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tim set his jaw, his eyes ablaze. “That’s not the question, Jon.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Then what’s the question?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The question is, do you even want to be free of this mess? Because it seems to me that you’re pretty happy jumping into it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Taking a deep breath, Jon struggled to sort out his thoughts, a jumble of guilt and anger and hurt and loss. “Tim,” he said as steadily as he could manage, “when I tried to stay out of it, Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. When I tried to jump into it, Elias killed a man and sent me on the run for murder for two months. At this point, I really don’t know what else I could be doing.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve got some ideas,” Tim mumbled, then his voice rose as he continued, despairing but still with his trademark confidence. “I listened to Martin’s statement about his ordeal with Prentiss. None of it would have happened if you weren’t such a dick about his work ethic. And Leitner wouldn’t have happened if you’d been fucking honest with us instead of trying to keep us out of it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I… yes. You’re right. I’m sorry.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was at that point that Jon’s fingers twitched toward the record button on his tape recorder. He didn’t consciously think of it, but something about the trajectory of the conversation made him think Tim might have said something that would be useful later. He was a smart guy, and he was always one to speak his mind, and Jon didn’t doubt that he could offer some genuinely good advice, even if it came in the form of resentful admonishment. </em>
</p><p><em> “Don’t,” Tim commanded firmly. “Don’t turn that fucking thing on, don’t you </em>dare.”</p><p>
  <em> Jon sighed, his finger freezing on the button. “I just think –” </em>
</p><p><em> “I don’t care what you think,” said Tim. “If you want to talk to me, the tape recorder is </em> off. <em> Full stop.” </em></p><p>
  <em> “I need the tapes for my own reference –” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I said I don’t care.” Tim’s voice was thick, snarling and explosive. “It. Stays. Off.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Even with all the guilt and shame he was buried under, Jon felt a little indignant at Tim’s attitude. “Fine. Fine, then. You clearly have no interest in helping, so I’ll be on my way.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He turned on his heel and stormed off without waiting for an answer, but he could have sworn he heard Tim mutter “Good fucking riddance” under his breath.) </em>
</p><p>Thinking about it now, he’s almost positive Elias was watching the whole conversation as it happened. The realization sparks something hot and angry in his gut, but he continues to vent to the tape recorder, curious and distressed, growing more so by the second. </p><p>“It’s just… the part that really gets me is how – how – how <em> hopeless </em> it all is,” he laments. “We don’t know what’s going on, we don’t know how to stop it, we don’t know how to <em> find out </em>what’s going on or how to stop it. And even if, by some miracle or other, we manage to figure it out and we all make it through… Tim will never forgive me. He’ll never trust me again, and we’ll never be able to – to be friends again, the way we used to be.”</p><p>Jon pauses to bite back tears, tells himself it’s more from the migraine than the emotion, and continues in a choked voice. “I haven’t had many real friends in my life. Tim was… he was a good friend, and I – I wasn’t, and now I have to live with that. If I live at all, that is.”</p><p>Christ, but he’s pathetic. He lifts his hands to his face and rubs his eyes, exacerbating the throbbing pain that pulses through his veins. That’s enough for tonight, he thinks, and none too soon, because he also notices the distinct lack of the tape recorder noise, and releases a deep, bitter sigh. </p><p>“Fuck you,” he mutters, and rolls back over and goes to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>The next time he notices one of the tape recorders, it pops up when he’s already in the middle of recording a statement. That’s funny. He’s not in a particularly good mood, but he’s not in a particularly bad mood, either. He laughs quietly, a soft little huff of breath, and shakes his hair out of his eyes, making an on-the-spot decision to have fun with this one rather than ignore it.</p><p>He pauses in reading the statement, thinks very hard on it for a short moment. If Elias is listening to these, then what’s the best way to play with that? Something to make Elias squirm? Jon has an <em> incredibly </em>low threshold for embarrassment himself, but in this moment it’s heavily outweighed by his desire to fuck with Elias, even if only to make him slightly uncomfortable for a minute.</p><p>It’s not hard to swerve from the statement he was recording into a yarn that will undoubtedly turn Elias’s face red. It’s a Hunt statement, something about being stalked through the streets of London, an experience that Jon knows intimately, though under different circumstances. Easy enough to turn into something a bit <em> weirder. </em></p><p>Maybe it’s a bit concerning, how easy it is, but Jon doesn’t have the wherewithal to worry about that. He can hardly claim to be surprised at his own ability to perfectly recreate a fake statement off the top of his head. Hell, maybe he’s actually drawing on a real story that he just hasn’t heard yet. </p><p>In any case, the yarn that he spins is something he’s quite proud of, in the context. The sexual overtones are palpable, the parallels between being Watched and being Hunted are clear without being too on-the-nose, and the personal jabs at Elias are witty and subtle. It does sound like a real statement, but one that’s been crafted to make Elias feel even a <em> fraction </em>of the confusion and vulnerability that he inflicts upon everyone else, all the time.</p><p>The tape recorder disappears toward the end of the fabricated statement, before Jon has to worry about making up post-statement notes. He giggles to himself, takes out <em> his </em>tape that has been recording the whole time, and starts recording over it with the actual statement.</p><p>When he’s done recording, Georgie knocks on the door politely and comes in with her brow furrowed deeply from some mixture of confusion, concern, and amusement. “Sorry, I really try not to eavesdrop on your – your things,” she says, “but did I hear you talking about a stalker?”</p><p>Jon can’t help a laugh, even as he thinks how callous it is to get enjoyment from his fake story, considering it is based loosely on what was a real traumatic experience for… Ellen Donovan, her name was.</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” he assures Georgie. “Nothing to do with me, not really. Just a statement I was reading.”</p><p>“That’s the kind of stuff you read? For work?”</p><p>“Yeah. It’s – I know it’s strange. It’s not always like that.”</p><p>Georgie gives him a wary look that says she only half believes him. “If you say so,” she says slowly, cautiously. “Just… if anyone tries stalking you, I don’t really care if you bring them here, but you can’t have sex with them on my furniture.”</p><p>“That’s not – that wasn’t what happened,” Jon protests, struggling not to get defensive, “in the – the story, that is. She didn’t have sex with the stalker. That would be massively weird and not okay at all. She just likened the experience of being stalked to the feeling of being pursued by a persistent man at a club, or something like that.”</p><p>“Well,” Georgie declares, her attitude unchanged, “if you’re being pursued by a persistent man at a club, you can’t have sex with him on my furniture, either.”</p><p>“You have nothing to worry about. Really.”</p><p>“I don’t think that’s true.”</p><p>“Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” Jon concedes, then amends: “What I mean is, you know you don’t have to worry about me having sex with anybody on your furniture.”</p><p>“Yeah, I do know that,” says Georgie. She shakes her head, blows her hair out of her eyes, and looks Jon right in the eyes before adding, very earnestly, “Be careful, yeah?”</p><p>“I will,” Jon promises. </p><p>As soon as Georgie leaves, he breaks into a fit of laughter that leaves him breathless. He will miss her when he inevitably has to move out of her flat. He's missed her for the past few years, to be honest. Some part of him hopes that maybe he'll be able to keep in touch and maintain their friendship after all of this, but it's a flight of fancy. He could never forgive himself if something happened to her, and there's no way to guarantee her safety if she becomes a constant in his life, the way she once was, the way he wants her to be.</p><p>Georgie knows, of course, and she's been touched by the End, and even if she didn't and she hadn't, Jon would never be able to protect her. The world is a dangerous place, even without the Institute and all of its associated nonsense. But Jon can't pretend to believe that his presence in her life isn't considerably increasing that danger. He can't pretend to think that his existence isn't putting everyone he loves in danger all the time, and he can't pretend that he's doing anything substantial or productive to mitigate the problem. How can he, when the problem is him?</p><p>Well. Partially him, anyway. At least Elias is sticking to eavesdropping on him and staying away from Georgie, but Jon has no way of knowing if that will continue. He needs to get out of here, and soon.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. take the chapstick, put it on your lips</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>in-story song snippets from "la rue des cœurs perdus" by françoise hardy</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Elias is really, really getting on Jon’s nerves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a while without any mundane tape recorder incidents, with the world more focused on remarkable tape recorder incidents, kidnappings and the like. It’s even easier to hate Elias for that than to hate him for spying. He sat there for a month and did nothing while Jon was being held captive, and now has the gall to be so fucking smug about it, as if he has no idea how much shit Jon’s been through because of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he knows better than anyone, and Jon knows he knows. And honestly, even putting aside the mortal danger and the impending apocalypse, Jon’s trying to settle into a new flat and juggle his interpersonal relationships and of course Elias doesn’t care about any of that. He didn’t even give Jon a day off to unpack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pressing issue now, though, is recovering from the aforementioned kidnapping and coming to terms with Elias’s complete lack of concern. When Jon comes home from that mishap exhausted, hurt, and very, very angry, he sleeps for a day at least, and then tries to return to whatever passed for normal before the latest string of fucked up occurrences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s late at night and Jon is in the shower, taking his time with his tender injuries and his sore muscles, working his fingers through his tangled hair. He wouldn’t usually let it get this bad, but he hasn’t really had a choice of late. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, you would think that with how difficult my job is, I’d make enough money to be able to buy the right conditioner for my hair,” he grumbles, squeezing a healthy amount of cheap conditioner into his hand and working it into his poor neglected hair. Easier to focus on the financial aspect, the Elias part of this equation, than to think for even a second about Nikola Orsinov conditioning his hair for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should count as a business expense, really, not that that would help. Saving my receipts is bloody useless, isn’t it, because you can’t be reimbursed for something you can’t afford in the first place. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>people are unreasonably tight-fisted on these matters. You’d have to have that fine, straight, blond hair in order to believe that conditioner isn’t a living necessity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon takes a moment to scowl at the shower wall as he thinks of Elias and his stupid hair. Or, more accurately, Jon scowls in the direction of the wall, but he can’t actually see the wall, because he always showers with the lights off, these days. Dysphoria is bad enough without having to look at his body and see his growing collection of scars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shower feels really good after everything Jon has been through lately. He thinks for a moment that if the lights were on, he might be able to see the grime running off his skin in rivulets. It’s a bit of a disgusting image, but equally cathartic, especially if he thinks about it figuratively: washing away all the horror and dread and guilt, leaving only raw skin and decently conditioned hair and so, so much confusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would be an improvement, Jon has to admit. He takes a breath, shakes his head clear, tries to think of something to take his mind off everything. What he lands on, after a few seconds of thought, is a song. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Je connais un coin de rue</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Où l'on va jeter son coeur,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Quand le pauvre ne sait plus,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Que répandre des pleurs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon sings the words quietly, his voice rough and shaking, but still with the rich, deep tone that landed him the role of Sweeney Todd in his junior year at Oxford. He doesn’t sing in front of people anymore, as a general rule, because the reaction is always an insulting level of shock, as if Jon being able to sing goes against laws of nature, or something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That doesn’t stop him from letting it out in private sometimes, and occasionally with Georgie. When she’s feeling charitable, she humors him with two-part harmonies. Of course, she’s not here now, and Jon only has himself, no harmonies to be found as he continues singing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Et malheur à tous ceux là,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Qui n'osent pas le jeter</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Et reviennent sur leurs pas,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Avec un coeur usé.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon begins working lotion into his arms carefully, avoiding open wounds, taking his time – his skin really does need it, loath as he is to admit it. His voice strains as he stretches to reach his back, but he pushes through the chorus softly, the words coming easily as a second thought to the movements of his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dans la rue des coeurs perdus,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Ce soir c'est à mon tour,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Dans la rue des coeurs perdus,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>D'aller pleurer mon amour.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice cracks and breaks on the last line, unexpectedly. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was feeling and now it’s snuck up on him, like it so often does. He chokes, draws in a gulp of air, stops himself before he can actually start crying, because that’s more than he can take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pathetic,” he scolds himself under his breath. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. More important things to worry about, Jonathan, get it together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much for distraction, then. A few deep breaths later, Jon finds it in him to divert his train of thought to another track, but that track happens to be the one he was avoiding to begin with. At least it’s productive. He blinks hard several times, presses his lips together in a tight line, and considers what he knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clowns, mannequins, skin,” he mutters, words approximating ideas but not forming fully coherent thoughts. “Wax figures?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christ, he can’t handle this right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just – I need to figure this out. I need to. I need to figure it out and save everyone. Why can’t I just figure it out?” Jon’s voice is high and desperate now, pouring out of him in a mass of nearly raw emotion, all the shame and fear and desperation flowing easier than the stream of the shower head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Figure it out, Jonathan, figure it out. You’re not going to let the world end. You’re going to make it all work out, and Sasha’s death won’t be in vain, and Tim’s hurt won’t be in vain, and – and all your friends, who are working so hard to solve this, who are trapped because of you, who are all going to die if you screw this up – they’re all going to be okay. Basira, and Melanie, and Tim, and Daisy, and… Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon heaves a cataclysmic sigh and lifts his hands to rub his eyes aggressively, pressing down hard until he sees static swimming behind his eyelids. “Martin,” he repeats, no more than a whisper, and then raises his voice and speaks with a fierce determination. “Martin will be okay. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>will.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jonathan Sims, you are going to do whatever the hell it takes to make sure that Martin is okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now he’s crying. He can hardly tell the tears from the hot water of the shower, but he certainly recognizes the tightness in his chest and the thick lump in his throat. He rinses his hair one last time and turns the shower off with much more force than necessary, steps out and wraps himself in a towel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s then, with his body covered, that Jon finally turns the light back on. And it’s then, with the shower off and the light on, that Jon finally hears and sees the tape recorder. It’s sitting on the counter next to the sink in plain sight, proud and vicious and spiteful, and it makes Jon’s blood boil instantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not just the frozen-steel certainty that the thing has been there the whole damn time, listening to his raving and his moping and his </span>
  <em>
    <span>singing.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s the straw that breaks his back, is what it is, and his back was really rather weak to begin with. It’s the mocking reminder that Elias can do whatever he wants, whenever he feels like it, and he refuses to use that power for any purpose except gross invasions of privacy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon really isn’t that </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry,</span>
  </em>
  <span> all things considered – he’s not very good at anger. He’s sad and lonely and hurt, hopeless and vulnerable and weak, but he can’t summon enough genuine anger to do anything but walk away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After that, Jon starts making a point to walk away every single time a tape recorder appears when he’s not doing anything related to the Archives. If he can’t walk away, or if another one shows up, he just shuts his mouth and stops being interesting. Cracks open a book, has a lie down, anything that can’t possibly be of note on an audio recording. If something important is going to happen, then it will happen, but Jon can usually tell the difference between a Beholding tape recorder and an Elias tape recorder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Beholding tape recorder shows up when Jon is doing work, when he’s having a conversation with a colleague that he isn’t already recording, or when he’s about to be kidnapped. Those recorders are convenient and practical, and Jon can usually tell within seconds exactly why they’re there. An Elias tape recorder is impossible to get rid of, appears at completely random times with no reason whatsoever, and spins at a frequency that sounds like cruel laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to Jon here and there that if he really is becoming an avatar of the Eye, then he should have some amount of power over the tape recorders. Apparently not. So while some of the tape recorders may be useful, showing up at opportune moments, he treats them all as malicious until proven otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult, because his instinct is to talk, and because he has quite a bit of trouble modulating the volume of his voice, so sometimes he speaks too loudly to be able to hear a tape recorder running. But if there is one thing Jon has never had trouble with, it’s paranoid vigilance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the state of things these days. Sometimes Jon notices a recorder when he's in the middle of something, and has to wrack his brains to try and figure out how long it's been listening. Did it appear just now, or did he just not see it before? Usually, he can't say for sure, and it's frustrating as hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All Jon can do with what little information and control he has is to try his damnedest not to give Elias what he wants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon is poring over a file, working through bits of information and trying to find how they connect to each other, to the Stranger, to the Unknowing. The biggest problem he’s having is that Basira’s handwriting is atrocious. If it were anyone else, he would just let it go and come to his own conclusions, but Basira is actually quite insightful and her notes have been useful in the past. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, her penchant for helpfulness extends to answering her phone on the second ring. “Hello?” she asks, sounding concerned and exhausted. Not like they’re two separate feelings, but like she’s specifically tired of worrying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” says Jon, feeling guilty for reasons he can’t articulate. “I was just going through this file you sent me, and – thank you, first of all, it’s really interesting.” Basira hums a little acknowledgement of his thanks as he presses on, “But I’m having some trouble, er, reading some of your notes in the margins? It’s just. Really cramped, you know, not your fault, but I was hoping you could clear some of this up for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Basira drawls, unimpressed. “Why do you sound like you’re afraid of me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not – do I?” Jon’s brows draw together in confusion. “I guess I just… I feel bad for troubling you, is all. Not that I’m scared of how you’ll react, just my own bullshit, don’t worry about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Basira says warily. “What is it you need help with, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon breathes a quiet sigh and dives into his questions on Basira’s notes, before he can get obnoxiously, weirdly emotional about her acceptance and willingness to help him. Or to talk to him at all, really. It’s more than he gets out of Tim these days, or Melanie most of the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira answers all of Jon’s questions easily and then listens while he talks through some thoughts out loud, offering her own ideas and input as well. The conclusions they reach are not particularly fun, but they are extremely pertinent in figuring out the next steps Jon has to take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says when he’s satisfied he’s gotten all the answers he needs. “Really, Basira, I mean it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem,” says Basira.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon turns off the tape recorder he’s been using to capture their conversation for posterity. He’s confident he doesn’t need a recording of whatever comes next, the same small talk that always comes at the end of a phone call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira’s talking about the Archives now, whatever scheme Melanie’s come up with today, how Tim stalks around like a depressed shadow, the palpable anxiety that surrounds Martin. Jon would really like to listen to what she’s saying, even if only for the human interaction, but he finds himself distracted by a noise in the background.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er – sorry, Basira?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs at being interrupted. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have me on speaker phone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you recording this conversation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Basira says, confused. “I thought you were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, yeah, I was. It’s just – there’s a tape recorder running, somewhere near you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Elias, I’m assuming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira doesn’t sound surprised in the least when she replies. “Of course. Yeah, I hear it now. Can’t see it, though, the slimy bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon nods his head, a tight smile on his face. “Yeah, he does that pretty often. Only to me, though, so I have a feeling if we hung up the phone, the recorder would go away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, then. Bye, Jon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bye, Basira.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten seconds after hanging up the phone, he gets a text from Basira that just says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gone.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He grinds his teeth, shakes his head, closes his eyes and counts to ten slowly in his mind. He has to talk to Elias about the things he and Basira just figured out, not least because he needs clearance to go out of the country, and he would rather prefer to have that conversation without openly shouting at Elias or threatening his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can do that later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>America’s mostly a bust, which Jon probably should have guessed from the fact that it’s America. It doesn’t escape his notice that the most helpful information he gets on his trip is from Julia, Trevor, and Gerry, who by all rights </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>have been in England, and would have been, were it not for annoying circumstances that kept them across the pond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anyway, now he has Gerry with him, though that is a small comfort. He won’t be speaking to Gerry again, no matter how much he wants to; he has a promise to keep, and it would be cruel to put it off and call on him again. So he can’t do anything with the page except destroy it, and just having it is putting him in danger and giving him more anxiety than he knows what to do with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels almost like Jon has lost someone himself, even if he never knew Gerry when he was alive. It’s not just about the knowledge, the information that Gerry could give him – he’s not so insensitive to view the man’s life only in terms of how it benefits him. No, it’s that Gerry was too young to die, and that he deserved a better death than he got, and that Jon thinks they really could have gotten on, if the universe didn’t have other ideas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More and more these days, Jon worries that he’s becoming too much like Gertrude, or else not enough like her. His talk with Gerry burned in his mind somehow manages to play on both of those fears at the same time. Gertrude had all the knowledge and efficiency that Jon craves, and all the calculating cruelty that he fears, and she had Gerry, and she didn’t deserve him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s silly. It’s silly and selfish of him to imagine himself – what, saving Gerry? Figuring out a cure for cancer and stealing him away from Gertrude the way Gertrude had stolen him from Mary, only Jon would be better, Jon would treat him better, but what’s the point in dwelling on all of that? It’s hopeless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon spends a lot of energy trying not to think about it. There are plenty of more pressing matters to think about, of course, but he finds himself instead mulling over something that’s been niggling at the back of his mind for a bit – a phone call with Martin when he was in Pittsburgh. It fell by the wayside with everything else that was going on, but now he’s back home and Martin is very much on his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(They mostly talked about Gertrude’s arrest after Gerry’s death, that was why Jon had called in the first place, that was the information he needed. But Martin sounded nervous and distant in a way Jon hadn’t heard him in months, and it was distracting, concerning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Martin,” Jon said curiously, and then said nothing else.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah?” asked Martin, his voice high and strained, like it had been throughout their whole discussion of arrest records and hospital files.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Are you alright?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Er, yeah? Yeah, why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jon bit his lip, trying to phrase his answer in the least insulting way. “You sound… erm. Distressed? Anxious?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m always distressed and anxious, Jon.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You don’t always sound like it, though.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Martin paused for a long moment, his breath hitching. “I’ve been – not been sleeping too well lately. Been having some dreams. It’s not your concern.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His brow furrowing deeply, Jon had the immediate reflex to protest, to tell Martin that anything that was upsetting him was of great concern to Jon, but he decided against it. “Bad dreams? Weird dreams?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The gears in Martin’s head turned almost audibly as he weighed the risk and reward of opening up to Jon. It wasn’t something he’d normally do, but Jon was actually asking, because he cared. “No,” Martin sighed reluctantly. “Not supernaturally weird, anyway. Just sort of disappointing? And like – surreal, which I guess dreams usually are.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured sincerely. “Have you told anyone about them? I mean, you can tell me if you want, but I have a feeling you wouldn’t want to.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, not really. And no, I haven’t talked to anyone else, either.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You could try writing about it,” Jon suggested. “Usually when I have things to work through that I don’t want to talk about, I – well, I don’t deal with it very well. But you’re a writer. Whether it’s just writing down what happened in the dream, or even writing a poem about it – I think it could help. Only if you want to, of course.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Martin spoke again, the smile was audible in his tone. “Thanks, Jon. That’s a really good idea, and… a really nice thing to say.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re welcome,” Jon replied. “I have to let you go now. You’ll be okay?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yeah, thanks. Be safe, Jon.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You too.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He hung up, and then a flurry of bullshit swept through his life for the next few days, but the conversation stuck in his head. Martin was upset, Jon couldn’t fix it, and it ate at him.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon asks about it when he gets back – vaguely, idly, while he’s reading a statement and not looking up at where Martin stands by the door. He takes the time beforehand to make absolutely sure that the words won’t have a trace of compulsion behind them, and then he throws the question out as casual as anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin lets out a little squeak in answer and tells Jon he did end up writing some things about the dreams. Then inexplicably, unexpectedly, he asks if Jon would like to read some of them. And inexplicably, unexpectedly, Jon says yes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s how Jon ends up in his bed at nearly midnight, pulling a wrinkled and folded piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and reading it by lamplight. He has one or two drinks in him – just something to help him sleep, he tells himself, but he’s tipsy enough to get emotional about the poem. He reads it several times over, his hands shaking:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I have a dream where I can see the stars: </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>All lovely little clusters in the sky,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Like headlights on some unknown distant cars,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Illuminating us from up on high.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And in my dream we both look up and see</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>The blinding truths we know but cannot say,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Against the dark, a coded cipher key</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>To tell us what is night and what is day.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>In dreaming, I reach out to touch your hand</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And hold you tight until our fingers bleed.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>The stars don't speak so we can understand,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>The sky can't always give us what we need.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I feel at peace, but even in my dreams,</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>The peace will never be quite what it seems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s handwriting is soft and curly, and there are a few spots where he’s pressed too hard on the pen, one place where it went clean through the paper. Jon brushes his fingers over the wounded page, gnawing the inside of his cheek, tears stinging his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin…” he whispers, full of pity and shame and affection. “You should feel at peace. You deserve that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obviously, Jon can’t be sure that the sonnet is about him, or for him. Part of him thinks that Martin wouldn’t have let him read it if it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>about him, but another part of him can’t make sense of why else he would have given it to him. Regardless, it’s brought to the surface some things that Jon has spent a long time not saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe I didn’t love his poetry before. What, like – like I’m so much better? I’m full of shit. I’ve always been full of shit.” It feels good to say the words aloud. “And he… he’s been so good to me and so patient and… I’ve been so stupid,” Jon mutters defeatedly, lying back on his pillows and staring at the ceiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he doesn’t even want me anymore,” he continues, dejected. “Maybe he’s moved on and found someone who doesn’t act like a complete wanker, and I’ve picked the worst possible time to come around. Wish I’d told him earlier. What am I saying, I still haven’t told him. I should tell him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can think better of it, the phone is already ringing, and Martin picks up almost immediately with a breathless, “Hi, Jon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” Jon sighs in relief. “Martin…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Jon? Do you – do you need something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon clears his throat in a businesslike manner and composes himself, preparing to say what he needs to say. He’s having trouble remembering what he needs to say, but luckily the feelings haven’t gone anywhere, so he catches the thought again fairly quickly. “Yes, Martin,” he answers. “I was just looking over this poem you gave me, and I had some thoughts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a testament to how much their relationship has changed in the past few years that Martin audibly rolls his eyes and deadpans, “If you’re going to critique my writing, can it wait until tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Jon replies hastily. “I mean, that’s not what I’m doing. I just wanted to talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” says Martin, surprise coloring his tone. “What about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m really sorry you’ve been having those dreams,” is all that Jon can come up with when he tries to speak. He swallows nervously before adding, “I’m really sorry for a lot of things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t say anything, and the haze of alcohol in Jon’s brain makes him barrel forward. “Was it me?” he blurts out, unthinking. “In the dream? In the poem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon, are you drunk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only a little, but that’s not important. Is it me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s voice is small and choked and it makes Jon’s stomach hurt to hear it. He’s made Martin upset again, made him anxious by dragging this out, and the guilt hits in full force when he hears that voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I’m all over the place,” Jon mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m asking because I – I hope it is. I hope it’s me, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon, I –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I really wouldn’t mind touching your hand. I mean, I’d like to. And I thought maybe – it’s presumptuous of me, but I just thought… if your dreams are unhappy because you think I don’t love you, then that’s a fairly easy problem for me to fix, because all I’d have to do is tell you that I do, in fact, love you. Kind of painfully, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I know, I know I’ve been awful to you, and I’m sorry, and you don’t have to forgive me. But – I thought you deserved the truth, is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon,” Martin repeats emphatically, forcing him to stop babbling and listen. “Jon, if I ask you about this tomorrow, are you going to remember it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, definitely,” Jon states with absolute clarity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And are you going to stand by it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jon says again, “definitely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Well then,” he replies at length. “In that case, I definitely love you, too. Kind of painfully, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a surprise, really. Jon has known how Martin felt about him for a long time, but it’s a hell of a relief to hear him say it, to know that he hasn’t moved on, he doesn’t resent Jon for making him wait, he feels the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After regaining his breath and remembering how to speak, Jon simply says, “I’ll be at the Institute tomorrow, if you want to talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like that,” Martin affirms softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Jon says, barely more than a whisper. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he rolls over to set his phone on the nightstand, Jon feels a dizzy rush that he thinks can only be half attributed to the alcohol. Then he hears a low, scratchy whirring noise that he thinks can’t be attributed to the alcohol at all. The tape recorder is on his nightstand, and his hand lands on it before his eyes do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you fucking kidding me,” he growls as he picks it up. Of course Elias would catch him when he’s drunk and distracted and emotional. Alongside his irritation, Jon feels a visceral relief at the fact that he didn’t read the poem aloud, nor put Martin on speaker. It’s one thing for the tape recorder to hear his rambling, but he would be downright murderous if it caught Martin’s vulnerability.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes it a few times just to take out some of his anger, then lifts it to his face and speaks directly into it. “I don’t know how long you’ve been listening,” he hisses, seething and threatening, “but I am telling you right now: your little spying game does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>involve him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having made his point, Jon chucks the recorder at the wall, where it breaks into several pieces that disappear before they hit the ground. He has trouble getting to sleep after that.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. crack a smile, adjust my tie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jonathan Sims has always had trouble adjusting to change, especially when it’s drastic and sudden, and extra especially when it’s several drastic, sudden changes at once. It seems like that’s just the trajectory of his entire life at this point: on the run for murder, trotting the globe, kidnapped three times, trying to save the world. His whole world’s been turned upside down again and again so many times that he no longer knows which way is up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, the most recent earth-shattering event in his life is a good one, and everything makes just a little bit more sense now that he has Martin. It’s kind of surreal how comfortable it gets, and how quickly. Jon feels safe now in a way he hasn’t in a long time, while still being reasonably aware that he absolutely is not safe. He remains vigilant for oddities both dangerous and mundane, especially after the thing with his drunk nonsense and their phone call, but it’s almost two weeks before another recorder shows up from Elias.</span>
</p><p><span>Jon is not doing anything, as is typical when the things appear. He’s at home alone and he’s got the television on but he’s not really watching it, just lying on his sofa with his eyes closed, not trying to sleep, just existing. Over the quiet background of </span><em><span>The Golden Girls,</span></em><span> in between the occasional commentary he throws out for his own sake,</span> <span>he distinctly hears the tape start spinning.</span></p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you’re expecting, but you won’t be getting it,” he announces immediately. “You already know everything you could want to know about me. You don’t need the bloody tapes. The tapes are </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The realization of the truth of that statement is jarring. The tapes </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>his thing. Maybe they started with the Beholding, maybe that’s where the power comes from, but the drive, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>desire </span>
  </em>
  <span>to record everything for posterity, that’s Jon. It always has been. He’s been assuming that he can’t control them because he doesn’t have the ability to manipulate the Eye in that way, he’s still mostly </span>
  <em>
    <span>human,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not like Elias. But maybe that’s a more complex distinction than he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just do this to taunt me, don’t you?” Jon asks, growing more irritated as he speaks. “You know I can hear the thing running, you know I know you’re listening, and yet you keep doing it. Why, because you just enjoy getting on my nerves? What are you getting out of this, Elias? What’s the point?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is more curious than angry, and there isn’t anything going on that he wouldn’t want Elias to hear, so he just continues ranting at the tape, at Elias. “It’s pathetic, is what it is. Do you really have nothing better to do? Like, I don’t know, maybe helping us stop the apocalypse? Or is that exclusively my job now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That thought inspires him to address another issue, which he’s been meaning to bring up since Elias first offered him the head archivist job. He hasn’t gotten around to it yet, first because of the mess of the archives and then because of the constant mortal danger, but now seems as good a time as any. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, let’s talk about my job, Elias,” he begins diplomatically, businesslike. “I’m fairly sure none of this is in my contract. We really ought to sit down and discuss a pay raise, I think. For everyone, not just me. Heaven knows you put us all through enough, we should be making six figures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Running a hand through his hair, he blows a frustrated breath out through his teeth. “It’s not like you don’t have the funding,” he continues with a scathing cynicism growing within him. “I know how rich the Lukas family is. I don’t really know why they support you and your bloody Institute, but I think they could be persuaded to cough up a bit extra, if your entire staff were on the line. Not quite sure how your whole omniscience thing works – do you have an encyclopedic knowledge of history? I only ask because I wonder if you’re aware of what historically happens to bosses who remain intransigent in the face of union demands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes the decision not to delve into a fully detailed description of the history of labor rights, but only because he thinks Elias would enjoy it too much. “I know you think you’re protected by the whole thing where our lives are tied to your life,” he says, his voice tipping into an exhausted sort of sighing more than speaking, “but you might want to consider that our lives are also tied to our ability to afford things like food and shelter. Honestly, if the choice is to be shackled to a job that puts our lives in danger and doesn’t even pay well, or die? It may not be as easy an answer as you seem to think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon smiles to himself, feeling rather smug about his little lecture. Elias may have the upper hand in so many ways, but Jon is getting quite good at thinly veiled threats, these days, and most people on the receiving end seem to be genuinely afraid. He doesn’t think he’ll actually be making an attempt on Elias’s life any time soon, but it’s good to know that he’s put the idea out there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns the volume up on </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Golden Girls,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and the recorder disappears soon enough. Jon hopes, in the petty depths of his soul, that Elias loses sleep over the thought of him unionizing the Archive staff. It’s the least he deserves, after everything he’s done to them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s possible that Martin is actually an evil genius.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerry had told Jon, when they were talking back in America, that there were no entities of hope or love, only fear. With Martin around, Jon isn’t sure he believes that. A godlike power of love could still be one bent on destroying the world, right? Whatever that entity would look like, however it would manifest, Martin is definitely one of its most powerful avatars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blowing a breath out slowly through his teeth, his arms crossed tight across his chest, loitering self-consciously in the corner of his own living room, Jon fixes his eyes on Martin. He’s hovering and being overly helpful, even more so than usual, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves, and Jon feels achingly sad for him, even if this is all his doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>his doing. Jon has to accept some responsibility, a great deal of it actually, for the underlying situation that led them here. But this particular circumstance was entirely Martin’s idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(“We should have a party,” Martin said, casual as you please, peering over his glasses at Jon like it was the most normal thing in the world and not a completely outlandish suggestion that was almost certainly a joke. “Or, well. I guess I mean </span>
  </em>
  <span>you </span>
  <em>
    <span>should have a party, but I would help.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What are you talking about?” was all Jon could summon up by way of responding.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Martin was unfazed – that was a new thing for him, being calm and confident in Jon’s presence, and it still surprised both of them in equal measure when it happened. “We’ve got time, yeah? Before the – before everything really goes down?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jon gave a slow nod of his head. “Yes,” he said apprehensively, “a few weeks. But I don’t quite understand the connection.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Martin hesitated, looking at Jon as if he were a bit afraid of how he would react. It was a bit desperate, a bit longing, and it pained Jon to see it; he was almost about to say something when Martin decided to state his case. “I just don’t see why we shouldn’t use that time to – to try to get right with everyone.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Blinking at him, Jon took a moment to process the meaning, and then he spoke in a dry, flat tone. “You think that me throwing a party would make Tim not hate me.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, obviously, when you put it like that, it sounds silly,” Martin pouted. “No, I don’t think a party will magically fix everything. But I know that doing nothing definitely won’t. You should be – I don’t know, trying.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The way his lip jutted out was almost adorable enough to make Jon concede the issue without any further debate, but it was kind of an important subject. He did want to work on repairing his relationship with Tim, but he was entirely unconvinced that a party was the way to do it. He was rather looking forward to hearing whatever Martin came up with in the way of reasoning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’d like to try,” Jon said, a hint of distress seeping into his tone. “You know I want that. But why a party?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Okay, okay, maybe not – not like a </span>
  </em>
  <span>party </span>
  <em>
    <span>party. But a get-together, you know?” Martin tilted his head beseechingly and bit his lip, looking across at Jon with a nervous expression, fearing upsetting him. “Maybe if we get everyone in one place, air some of this out, then it will be… a start?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“A start,” agreed Jon, pressing his lips together tightly. “I suppose – if you’re offering to help – I could be persuaded to have some of our colleagues over here for an evening. It will be </span>
  </em>
  <span>much </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder to persuade </span>
  </em>
  <span>them,</span>
  <em>
    <span> mind.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll work on it,” Martin murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking back on it now, Jon is almost entirely sure that smile was diabolical, but it’s hard to hold it against him when he looks so bloody small and miserable over there talking to Basira. Poor lad. Basira is a good person, undoubtedly, but her demeanor lends itself to the kind of interactions that Martin will definitely overthink – he’ll get himself worried about it tomorrow, and Jon will have to assure him that Basira really didn’t mean anything by it, and he won’t mind one bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For his part, Jon has been trying rather heroically to talk to Tim all evening. He has no earthly idea what kind of extortion or coercion Martin used to get Tim to come here – Martin only said Tim </span>
  <em>
    <span>owed him a favor</span>
  </em>
  <span> and refused to elaborate – but now that he’s here he seems hellbent on ignoring Jon, which kind of defeats the purpose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy and Melanie are no help at all, chatting away on the sofa and occasionally looping Basira and Martin into a debate they’re having. They don’t seem to mind being here, which is something at least, but they also don’t seem to have any interest in mending relationships that weren’t all that present to begin with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim, though. That relationship used to be a sturdy, dependable presence in Jon’s life, and it’s fallen into utter disrepair, and it’s his fault. So he has to try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember how it used to be?” Jon asks rather abruptly, his voice a bit too loud for speaking to someone who’s standing only three feet away. “We used to be close, you know. We used to trust each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well.” It’s hardly a grunt, but it’s more than he’s gotten out of Tim all evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to trust you,” Jon says, then quickly corrects himself, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>trust you, as far as I can. It’s just that I also know with some certainty that you despise me, so it’s hard to trust you fully. But I want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim looks at him with hard eyes, his mouth a grim line. “I would love to be able to trust you, too,” he says, the words all sharp and aimed like a knife to the ribs. “You’re not the person that I used to trust. I don’t know if I can ever trust the person that you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon bites his lip, blinking back tears. He won’t cry, not now, not at a </span>
  <em>
    <span>party,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Christ’s sake. “Do you want to try?” he asks, feeling bolder than normal, knowing that Martin is here as a buffer, even if he is across the room. More than that, though, is the knowledge that Martin convinced Tim to be here, which speaks both to Martin’s dedication and to Tim’s loyalty. If he was willing to come because of Martin, he may be willing to try to fix things for Martin’s sake, at least. It would be a start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Tim answers after a long, excruciating pause. “Yeah, but –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking hell, Jon, are you kidding me?” Melanie’s voice rings out in the small room, and everyone snaps their head in her direction to see her holding a tape recorder. In the painful silence after her outburst, it’s impossible not to hear that the recorder is running.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s immediate response, unhelpful as it may be, is to ask, “Where did you find that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Behind the couch,” Daisy answers him, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “Not the most brilliant hiding spot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t dare to look at Tim now. He knows the hurt and betrayal and rage that he would find would only make things worse. He flounders with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds, and Melanie takes it as a confession.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason </span>
  </em>
  <span>could you possibly have for this?” she interrogates him shrilly. “I mean, you – you make us come over here and tell us you’re trying to – </span>
  <em>
    <span>make amends,</span>
  </em>
  <span> or whatever, and then you pull this shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I’m – it wasn’t, I – I didn’t,” Jon stutters, shooting a helpless glance at Martin, who looks sympathetic, and Basira, who looks like she gets it. “I didn’t,” he repeats as he meets her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t,” she echoes back to him, then turns to Melanie and Daisy, sparing a glance in Tim’s direction as well. “Jon didn’t do this. You’ve got to trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, because you trust him?” Daisy asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” says Basira, and Jon winces but he knows it’s fair. “No, but I’ve seen firsthand how this works, and it’s not just the way you guys have seen it, alright? The way these things pop up – it’s weird, but it really is some kind of fucked up magic thing that Elias does sometimes. Jon’s not lying about that, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is certain that Basira’s word is the only thing keeping Daisy and Melanie and </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tim from physically attacking him at the moment, and he’s grateful for it. He looks up to Martin’s face again across the room and sees him trying to process this all, trying to convince himself he believes Jon and figure out how to talk everyone else down from this ledge. Always the mediator, is Martin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is ridiculous,” Daisy mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Basira agrees, “but it’s true. You believe me, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I believe you,” says Daisy, as if Basira had asked if the sea was wide, if the sky was blue. “Mel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie starts slightly, looks back and forth between Jon and Basira and Martin and Daisy, then nods her head. “Yeah, I guess. But I swear to fuck, Basira, if he’s got you, too –”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He hasn’t,” Basira states simply, with a firm sense of finality. “Tim?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone looks to Tim at the same time, except for Jon, who stares determinedly at the floor and holds his breath in suspense as he waits for Tim to denounce and condemn them all for daring to give him the benefit of the doubt. He can hear Tim’s harsh breaths, can practically feel the anger rolling off of him in hot, heavy waves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, why the fuck not,” Tim says eventually, gritting his teeth, “but I’m leaving.” He turns to Jon, and Jon looks up to meet his eyes finally, seeing all the hurt there and feeling it down to his bones. “This is what it’s like for you now, and everyone around you. Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re on the right side and you’re trying your hardest, but none of that matters if shit like this is going to keep happening. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad guys</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t care whether you </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re on their side – you’re still doing their dirty work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What is Jon meant to say to that? He has nothing, and he says nothing, but gives Tim a wide-open, longing look. He almost thinks he catches Tim return the same look before he turns on his heel and walks out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy, Basira, and Melanie leave as well, though they at least put in the effort of trying to make a proper goodbye. Trying to leave as if they were just going to leave, as if the tape recorder had nothing to do with it. The sort of performative politeness that Jon appreciates right now, because it’s as much as he’s likely to get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s not much to clean up from the gathering; Jon was able to talk Martin out of cooking a whole meal for all of them, and now he manages to talk Martin out of putting away the various bowls of snacks he had insisted on putting out. He doesn’t like to be needy, not when Martin already gives so much, but he’s so tired and he just wants to go to sleep and that, at least, is something he can ask for without much guilt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’re lying together, Jon having shed his shirt and jeans and fallen straight into bed without the energy to put on pajamas, Martin with his arms wrapped around Jon to keep him warm, it’s almost comfortable. Jon still feels the nagging shame from the whole scene that had ruined their gathering, but Martin assures him it wasn’t that good an idea to begin with. Jon doesn’t believe him, but it’s a nice thing to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbles, exhausted, his face pressed into Martin’s chest. “I’m sorry things are like this. I’m sorry you have to put up with this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have to,” Martin says matter-of-factly. “I make a choice, every single day, to be with you. Whatever’s going on with the Archives or the apocalypse or whatever, I promise that handling it with you is far preferable to the alternative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I’m the problem,” Jon protests weakly. “He only wants me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin tightens his hold around Jon, presses a firm kiss to the top of his head. When he speaks, his voice is full of warmth and fierce passion. “Well, he can’t have you. I’ll make damn sure of it. Get some rest, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon burrows deeper into Martin’s embrace, tangling their legs together, and falls asleep within minutes. One of his last coherent thoughts before he surrenders to the abyss of sleep is that if this is part of Martin’s plot to take over the world on behalf of some entity of love, it’s definitely working, and it may not be so bad.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The others have decided that Jon can’t be trusted with the plan. Or, he can, but he can’t be trusted to be present for the actual planning of it. He’s been trying to stay away from the Institute as much as possible lately, and it would be suspicious if he only showed up on the days that they needed to casually disappear into the tunnels for a bit, so they agree that he should just not come at all, and Martin can fill him in later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Martin </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>fill him in, because they’re not in the tunnels, and they haven’t figured out anything else as of yet that seems to block Elias’s spooky magic vision in quite the same way. Martin works around the issue, clever thing that he is, using a series of obscure references that he’s sure Jon will understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s one thing they have going for them that Jon never would have guessed before: they both soak up information like dehydrated sponges and regurgitate it just as easily, which makes it possible for Martin to say something like “Remember when Sasha had to clean your hard drive?” and be understood completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a few years back, but thinking about it now Jon supposes he may have always been connected to the Eye more than he knew. Sasha was so helpful, and Jon kept snapping at her because he was on edge about losing his files, no matter how many times she assured him that she had backed them up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leap from that anecdote to the pain of destroying knowledge to inflicting that pain upon Elias to distract him is not necessarily an easy one on its face, but Jon makes the connection. He slips Martin a list of statements he’s already recorded the next day, and then he makes Martin a cup of tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This too is a type of coded message, which is why Martin appreciates it even though it is a truly horrible cup of tea. This is Jon’s way of telling him to stay safe, asking if he’s sure about this, saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He says </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span> out loud a lot, as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon is quickly becoming fond of kissing. He’s kissed people before, of course, but kissing Martin is a special kind of treat, and it really takes the edge off the constant state of anxiety that they all live in nowadays. The world may be ending, work may be excruciating, but at the end of the day Martin comes over to Jon’s flat and Jon gets to kiss him until one of them gets tired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Currently, Jon is sitting on his kitchen counter with his arms around Martin’s neck, and Martin is standing between his legs with his hands on Jon’s waist, and neither of them is anywhere near tired of this. They're both drained in almost every sense, but the requisite energy for kissing seems to come from an infinite reserve. It also doesn't hurt that it's their last night together before the Unknowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon hums a fervent moan against Martin’s lips and pulls back just enough to whisper “I love you,” his breath dancing across Martin’s skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too,” Martin replies easily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“God,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I love you so much, you have no idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon smiles, his lips brushing against Martin’s as he stubbornly refuses to pull away to a conversational distance. “I think I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea,” he protests, squeezing his knees in on either side of Martin’s waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Martin concedes, but when he moves to meet Jon’s eyes, his face is more worry than affection. “Just… Jon, promise me you’ll be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t lose you now, Jon, I just can’t,” Martin begins to babble, his voice high and desperate. “We can’t – we can’t have gotten here just to have it all ripped away like that. You need to be okay. You need to make it through this, I need you to promise me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh, Martin, it’s okay,” Jon soothes, stroking Martin’s cheek gently, sounding far calmer than he feels. “It’s okay. I’m doing everything in my power to make sure we all get through this, I promise. I’m not willing to lose this, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin swallows thickly, a lump in his throat. Jon swoops in to kiss him again, as if he can absorb Martin’s fears through his mouth, but he doesn’t get very far before pulling back abruptly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you hear that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hear what?” Martin asks, but then he seems to get it, his brow furrowing. “Is that a tape recorder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it is.” Jon sees red for a moment and then he nudges Martin out of the way, hops down from the counter and narrows his focus down to the singular purpose of finding the thing. It only takes him a few seconds – there aren’t that many places in his sparse flat where a tape recorder could be hiding, and they tend to pop up in plain sight. This one is on the windowsill above his kitchen sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs it with a fierce determination and speaks to it in a steady, dangerous tone. “Fuck off,” he says, starting off strong, not wasting time on subtleties. “I don’t give a shit if you get some perverse joy from listening to recordings of me brushing my teeth, if you get off on it or what, I could not care less. But you will </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay away</span>
  </em>
  <span> from Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jon says his name, Martin gasps softly, but Jon is too far gone to notice, still speaking to the recorder in a voice like flowing lava. “He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>for your entertainment, do you hear me? You better be listening closely, you vile, pathetic creep, because I am not in the habit of giving second chances. Let me be absolutely, undeniably clear. If you ever – </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>– come near him again, I will personally make </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn </span>
  </em>
  <span>sure that you regret it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tape recorder vanishes almost the instant Jon finishes speaking. Whether it’s because Elias is properly scared or because Jon has finally exerted some power of his own, it doesn’t matter to him, so long as the thing is gone. He breathes heavily in the silence that follows, eyes still glued to the spot where the recorder was, until Martin speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” he whispers, staring at Jon in shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my – fuck, Martin, I’m so sorry,” Jon says as he turns to face him, the reality of the situation hitting him like a bucket of cold water. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. It’s just – it’s been happening for a while now, you know, and I thought it was mostly okay – I mean, we were over the thing at the party, and the rest of the time it’s usually just me – but then he tried to get you involved and I, I don’t know what came over me, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he rambles in a panic, Martin tries to assure him, to interrupt him, to shut him up. “Jon. Jon. Babe,” he interjects in vain. “Jon, it’s fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jon.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s – babe, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>When Jon’s babbling has run its course, he catches the tail end of Martin’s reassurances, looks up at him quizzically, apologetically, expectantly. Martin offers him a small smile and lifts a hand to tuck Jon’s hair behind his ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he says matter-of-factly. Jon opens his mouth to object, but he presses on, raises his voice slightly and adds, “Plus, it was like… crazy hot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon freezes with his mouth open, his brow wrinkled deeply in confusion and disbelief. “It was?” he mutters almost absently. Martin nods, and Jon frowns for a long moment before asking, “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Martin hedges, his face heating up. He fixes his gaze on a point on the floor and mumbles his way through an explanation. “You being all… passionate, and – and protective, it’s. Very sexy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interesting,” Jon muses. A smile spreads on his lips, almost a smirk, and he quirks an eyebrow at Martin as he adds, “If you think it's attractive that I care about you, then – well, I should be downright irresistible." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You are," Martin says without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon beams up at him, a warmth blooming in his chest and pooling in his gut simultaneously. "So  – where were we, then,” he asks, all faux breeziness and nonchalance, “before we were so ungraciously interrupted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe we were right about here,” Martin murmurs, leaning in to resume the very important work of kissing him as if it’s the last night of their lives.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ive already planned a oneshot prequel to explain why tim owed martin a favor, dont worry about it<br/>ive also already planned a oneshot sequel where jon and martin get really deep into the psychology of martin being attracted to jon yelling at elias. dont worry about it!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. know your boyfriend, unlike other guys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jon tries, on the ride up to Great Yarmouth, to clear the air a bit. They don't let him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The one thing they can all agree on is that the noise of the car and the highway is enough that it would drown out a tape recorder, should one appear. Tim and Daisy are quite visibly upset by the possibility. Basira doesn’t seem to care, but then, she rarely says anything out loud that she wouldn’t want on tape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seems that they’ve all decided that talking things through with Jon would be a waste of time. The risk of being recorded, the palpable anxiety in the air, the bad blood. Whatever it is, they all have their reasons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy thinks it will only distract from their mission, that Jon is being overly emotional and not focusing on what's important. It's the first time Jon's ever been accused of being overly emotional, unless an intervention to address his wild paranoia counts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can see her point, though. She tells him to shut up more times than he can count. She's trying to concentrate on saving the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe you should do the same," she snaps, "and we can all talk about our feelings when we survive this."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon wants to tell her that she's being optimistic. That they likely won't survive it, not all of them, and that's why it's so important for him to get right with them. She wouldn't allow it if he tried explaining that, so he doesn't.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Basira tries to be understanding, but – she's not very good at it. She also tells him to shut up, over and over again. He doesn’t shut up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She keeps reminding him that he has nothing to explain to her, that she knows, that he doesn't need to try so hard. "I don't hate you, Jon," she says, long-suffering and deadpan. "I just want to get through this."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She does eventually manage to pound the message through his thick skull, so he gives up on Basira, but that just gives him more time to worry about Tim. And there's much to worry about, when it comes to Tim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He won't talk, and he won't listen. He doesn't want Jon's apologies or explanations or pleas for forgiveness. He doesn't want Jon's friendship or concern or love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim calls Jon a lost cause and angles his knees toward the door, presses his lips together in a tight line and ignores him for a while. It’s still not very effective as far as making Jon shut up goes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I didn't want this," Jon tries, soft and pained, after a long stretch of silence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don't care," says Tim. He doesn't turn his head to look at Jon, hardly even opens his mouth to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon nods slowly, swallows down several bitter responses on the tip of his tongue. Only helpful, productive words, he reminds himself. It’s too late in the game, the stakes are too high for him to start being resentful and hateful in return. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Tim. When this is over… are you planning on hating me forever?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arms folded tight across his chest, Tim huffs out a humorless breath of a laugh. “You know what my plan is, Jon. Let’s not beat around the bush.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” Jon snaps, voice shaking. “Fine, then. You want to die hating me? That’s satisfying for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sort of, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, what if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> die?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sudden lack of breathing in the car is audible, tangible. Jon sets his jaw and tries not to regret taking the shot. Tim stares out the window and tries not to say anything that will prove Jon right. Daisy and Basira avert their eyes and try to pretend they didn’t hear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Several seconds pass in painful silence, and then Tim inhales sharply, finally turns to face Jon. “What if you die?” he echoes back to him, like he’s not sure if he heard it right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. “Yes, Tim. What if I die and you have to go home and live? What then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim doesn’t have an answer. He looks angry about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just – promise me there’s a chance, please,” Jon implores, softening his tone considerably. “Promise that if we both make it out of this, there’s a chance for us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t promise you anything,” Tim snarls, half-hearted rancor tinged with something like hope. “Maybe. Maybe there’s a chance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Jon says curtly. “We can work out the kinks later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim scoffs at him, rolls his eyes as angrily as he can possibly manage. He doesn’t say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy turns the stereo volume up. A lot. It stays that way for the duration of the drive, no conversation, hardly room for Jon to hear his own thoughts. Probably for the best.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was too much to hope that the conversation in the car would be the end of it, Jon thinks. Too much to believe that he would be able to keep his stupid mouth shut when he’s sharing a room with Tim, a small kitschy room with a small kitschy bed and obnoxious kitschy wall decorations and not much else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim tries his level best to pretend Jon isn’t there, but… well, Jon is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing there. It’s quiet and awkward and stuffy – kitschy bed and breakfasts don’t tend to have aircon, and it’s early August, hot as hell in the kind of way that makes one feel trapped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mind if I open a window?” Jon asks, staring at the floor as he crosses the room to let some air in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Go for it,” Tim grunts. “Don’t jump.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon whips his head around to look at him in surprise, and Tim meets his eyes with a hard glare. Before Jon can say anything, Tim snaps, “Much as I would love for you to jump out a window, we need you tomorrow. After that, I don’t give a fuck what you do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The windows are locked </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>stuck. Jon heaves a sigh, turns back to the bed, crosses his arms across his chest. “Can’t be opened,” he grumbles, and sits down on the edge of the mattress. “Guess we can just boil on the last night of our lives.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim makes a noise, half scoff, half snort. “Don’t do that. You don’t get to do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, I don’t get to make morbid jokes when faced with my own mortality?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you don’t. Your </span>
  <em>
    <span>mortality </span>
  </em>
  <span>is bullshit, and we both know it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon laughs, a short bark of a thing. “We don’t know anything,” he says. “Nobody knows anything about how this works. I could easily die tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” Tim huffs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you really think that I’m not in danger?” Jon asks wildly, turning to face him. “Is that why you’re acting like this? Do you think I’m just fucking – coasting through this without worrying about it? Do you think I’m not terrified of dying, and – much, </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>more terrified of losing you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim turns around, sitting cross-legged on the bed, knees millimeters away from Jon’s. The closeness is sudden and scary. Tim’s fingertips dig into his thighs, grounding him. “I don’t want to think about how you’re feeling,” he murmurs, his voice softer than Jon’s heard it in months. “I don’t want to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon takes a deep breath, pulling at a thread at the hem of his sweatpants. “Well, I’m sorry,” he answers, “but you sort of have to. That’s – that’s how to be a person, Tim. It’s what I’m doing. Being a person. I care about your feelings.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stony-faced, Tim flares his nostrils and looks at his hand clutching his leg hard enough to bruise. “Don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t just. Turn it off.” Jon shrugs. “Can I ask you something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Tim answers instantly, “but you’re going to anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t rise to the argumentative tone, simply pushes on and asks, “You care about Martin, don’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I do,” Tim scoffs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, when we get home after all this,” Jon begins, speaking as if it’s a given, “would you try for his sake? Because you know – you know how he and I are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim rolls his eyes angrily. “Yeah, Jon, I know. I did tell him it was a shitty idea –”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for that,” Jon interrupts in a deadpan. “My point is, though… you understand my point, right? I’m just – I… you are his friend, and I am… involved… with him, and we should – learn how to get along, don’t you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know we used to fool around, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The question catches Jon off guard, and he chokes on air for a moment before figuring out how to reply. “I… had an idea, yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How much of an idea?” Tim asks, a glint in his eye that Jon would have attributed to mischief, once, but now he thinks is more antagonistic. He sounds curious, not malicious, but then he’s always been the type to talk like he’s your friend even if he isn’t. “Did he tell you all the gory details?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Tim,” Jon sighs wearily. “It’s none of my business.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phrase none of my business sets off an alarm bell in his head, and suddenly it occurs to Jon that this would be a truly terrible time for Elias to tune in, the way he does sometimes. That thought makes him strain his ears trying to locate any out-of-place noises, praying that he won't hear the low sound of a tape spinning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Mm," Tim grunts, a soft sound with all the </span>
  <em>
    <span>if-you-say-so</span>
  </em>
  <span> attitude that he can pack into it. "Sure he didn't just want to spare your feelings?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Why would he need to spare my feelings?" Jon asks. The more he thinks about it, the more sure he is that he doesn't want Elias to hear this conversation, both for his sake and Tim's. "What, like I'd be jealous of you? It doesn't matter to me. You're the only one with an issue here."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah, my issue is that my best friend is dating a monster."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I was your best friend, too, Tim," Jon whispers, narrowing his eyes in a scathing expression of hurt. "Are – are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>jealous?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No," Tim bites out without hesitation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon furrows his brow, gathering his thoughts with small gesticulations of his hands, like he does when he's very passionately explaining something and needs to sort out his feelings. Tim used to love that about him, Jon remembers. Now he looks ready to punch him at any moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Biting his lip, Jon moves forward a bit, his knees knocking into Tim's. "Because you know I wouldn't mind," he murmurs, "if you wanted to – the two of you, I mean. If you wanted to still do that. It wouldn't bother me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim clenches his jaw and hisses through gritted teeth, "I said no. I'm not jealous."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, Jon continues almost as if uninterrupted. "Or, you know, the three of us – someday, if we manage to work things out, maybe –,"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Christ, Jon, are you trying to win me over by proposing a threesome?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon's face heats up with a furious blush. "Not quite," he mumbles shamefully, worrying at his lip with his teeth. "No, I'm just saying… it could happen. One day, after all of this blows over. We could be – you know. Friends. The way we were before."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We weren't fucking before," Tim points out, incredulous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well, there's something to be said for personal growth," Jon states primly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim blows out a long breath through his teeth, shaking his head. "If your goal is to use sheer surprise and confusion to get me to forgive you, then you're not doing a terrible job of it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was not my goal," Jon tells him truthfully. "My goal is to show you through my words and actions that you can trust me and that I care about you. If that's surprising and confusing for you, then it seems I have a long way to go."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim inhales sharply, gives him a small nod. It's not much, but it's something. "I'm going to sleep now," he says, plain and unemotional. "You should, as well."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," Jon agrees, returning the gesture. "Big day tomorrow."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim turns over and switches off the bedside lamp, lies on his side facing the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. Over the blankets, because it's a million degrees. Jon lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, waiting for a whirring sound that never comes, until he drifts off into a fitful sleep.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Unknowing is, for lack of a better term, fucked up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are a few moments where tape recorders appear unbidden, spooling away with no understanding of what they're hearing. Then again, even if they were capable of sentient thought, there's not much here that </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> be understood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nikola Orsinov is Joseph Grimaldi, and then she is Gertrude Robinson, and then she is Jurgen Leitner, and sprinkled in throughout she tries to be Tim, and Sasha, and everyone, and no one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon is almost grateful for the tapes, with whatever part of him can still categorize and comprehend emotions. Whether it's Elias or the Eye or whatever else is out there listening, he thinks a record of this might be useful. If it survives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> survives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he does, barely. In the end, it's Tim who saves the day, who manages to take down the whole bloody circus and save Jon and Basira and Daisy. Jon's compulsion helps some, but the fire and the drive is all Tim.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon doesn't ask him how he did it. He doesn't want to know. He's spent so much time trying to figure things out these past few months, and he's perfectly content to just let things be what they are, for once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim knows. And Jon trusts Tim. That's all that matters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The police get called in to investigate the massive explosion that took out exactly one impossible building without touching any of the surrounding area. Jon and Basira act as the voices of reason while Tim and Daisy are tempted to stick around and cause trouble. Jon points out that causing trouble would almost certainly get them in trouble, and they’ve just saved the world, and he would really like to go home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re not happy about it – Tim is really not happy about it – but he’s right, so they make themselves scarce and make a getaway without being noticed. All in all, it’s rather anticlimactic. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The drive back to London feels like it takes years. Jon manages to sleep for a bit – the car’s aircon is fully functional, and Daisy is not shy about using it, so he shrugs on a cardigan and dozes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He only stays asleep for about twenty minutes before jolting awake with a strangled scream from a jumbled nightmare. As soon as his eyes are open, he’s forgotten everything about the dream but the feeling it leaves behind, the racing heart and the bone-deep dread. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy and Basira have mercy and ignore him, but Tim sits two feet away and watches him with a shrewd eye as he regains his breath, rubs sleep and tears from his eyes, and calms himself down. When Jon feels somewhat normal again, Tim’s eyes are still locked on his face, hard and dark and unfathomable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For all that he does hate himself and blame himself for everything that’s gone down between them, Jon has to admit that he feels indignant about the glare burning a hole in his skin. Tim can be upset with him, can hate him in a general sense, but it seems insensitive to wield that hatred like a weapon when Jon is minding his own business, falling asleep in the car and waking up knee-deep in a panic attack. It seems like this is perhaps one time when Tim could cut him a little slack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t say anything to that effect. No use being argumentative right now, not when there’s hope for them and he’s trying so hard to prove himself worthy of Tim’s friendship. No, what Jon does instead is pull out his phone, nod in Tim’s direction, and offer an olive branch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you talked to Martin?” he asks gently. “Since we left, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim purses his lips, caught off guard by the sudden show of good will. “Not really,” he answers, his voice low and rough. “Texted him when we didn’t die, just like you, but that’s it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to? I was going to – ah, if you two don’t mind,” Jon raises his voice to grab Daisy and Basira’s attention, though he’s still so timid, as if he expects to be jumped at any moment. “If you don’t mind,” he repeats awkwardly, “I wanted to call him. To check in, you know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy rolls her eyes like it’s a stupid question, because it sort of is, but Basira takes up the task of actually answering. “It’s fine,” she assures him. “Go for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon nods slowly, bashful about his own insecurity, embarrassed for how carefully he’s treading. He doesn’t say anything else about it, doesn’t give in to the urge to thank Basira or apologize to her or otherwise make a fool of himself. He hits the call button, puts it on speaker, and allows the warm anticipation of Martin’s voice to spread through him in the three seconds before he picks up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon, hi,” he sighs, sounding exhausted and relieved and a thousand other things that Jon can’t name. “How are you? Everything, erm. How’s – the… you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re wondering about the emotional climate of the car at the moment, then I believe </span>
  <em>
    <span>tense </span>
  </em>
  <span>is probably the best descriptor.” Jon flashes a sheepish smile at Tim before adding, “Also, you’re on speaker, so… don’t say anything mean about Daisy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As far as lightening the mood goes, it’s not the worst thing he could say. Tim actually laughs, and Martin’s smile is audible when he replies, “Hello, everyone. Please don’t kill Jon. I’m actually quite looking forward to getting my hands on him again, so I’m asking nicely. Get him back safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a beat, and then Tim mimes sticking his finger down his throat with a retching sound. Jon grimaces and flushes hot, mouths </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his direction, and Tim grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen, okay,” Martin says indignantly, huffing slightly. “In my defense – I want all of you home safe, but Jon is the only one likely to be murdered in the interim.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s fair,” Jon and Tim answer in unison.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin snorts a quiet laugh. “So, any interest in hearing how this end of the operation held out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A lump appears in Jon’s throat abruptly, and he swallows hard. He isn’t sure he wants to know what Martin had to endure in his absence. He trusts Martin and believes in his ability to hold his own, and he knows that the plan succeeded, Martin had told him that much over text, but still he worries.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says, before he can overthink it. Martin clearly wants to tell him, so he will listen. “Yeah, tell us how it went.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a simple enough story. Martin doesn’t share the intimate details of his confrontation with Elias, but he certainly shares the heroics of it, and he shares the information that Melanie was able to steal, and he shares his excitement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the way Martin’s voice wavers over parts of the telling of it, Jon is sure there’s more to it than just the unbridled glee Martin is feeling about their success. He’s riding a high, that much is clear, but Jon internally prepares a plan for comforting him when he inevitably comes down later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Martin’s story comes to a close, there’s a long, heavy moment of silence hanging in the air. Eventually, Basira pipes up: “Wait, so… he’s gone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what I said,” Martin chirps brightly. “Locked up. Taken away. Deposed. However you want to spin it, he’s definitely gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tim lets out a low whistle. “Have to admit, it feels a little… too easy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, Tim,” says Martin, without rancor. “We won, deal with it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, if Elias is out, who’s – who’s running the Institute?” Jon asks cautiously, warily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon can actually see the dismissive wave of Martin’s hands when he answers. “Peter Lukas, but he’s not an issue so far. Just showed up a minute after Elias was gone, started talking to me like we’re friends or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Peter Lukas?” Jon echoes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?” Tim asks, seeming almost excited. “What’d he say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just said – er, good going with the whole tricking Elias thing, really difficult to fool him, must be I’m a genius of the highest caliber, stuff like that,” Martin says breezily. “I told him to shove it, and now he’s moping in Elias’s office.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Isn’t that his office, now?” Basira points out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, I said something like that, and he gave me the weirdest look, like I was speaking Greek. Told me something stupid and cryptic, and then I left.” Martin pauses, turns away from the phone to say something to Melanie that nobody on the other end of the call can decipher. “Right, gang, I guess we’re going out for lunch, so I’ll let you guys go. See you soon, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They throw out a chorus of goodbyes, and then Martin hangs up, and Jon sighs. Stupid and cryptic sounds about right. Par for the course. All told, he doesn’t really anticipate much change in their day-to-day routine, save having a new boss to report to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s not quite fair, he tells himself. He doesn’t have any direct evidence that Peter Lukas has killed anybody, so that’s an improvement. Nor does he have any direct evidence that Peter Lukas has spooky magic powers, though his family name does go some way toward supporting the hypothesis that he likely does. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So, the chances of all the horror and madness coming to an abrupt end just because Elias is gone: not high. But at least they’ll get some </span>
  <em>
    <span>new </span>
  </em>
  <span>horror and madness. Should be interesting.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>im gonna be honest, this chapter is not High Art but it gets the job done. the job is getting them thru the unknowing so we can have real fun in the last chapter. so look forward to that. anyway i tried to at least make the jontim good in this one since the actual plot is mostly filler. uhhhh give me compliments</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. why would you lie about anything at all?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Peter Lukas turns out to be a non-issue, a non-threat, practically a non-entity to the archives. So far, Martin's still the only one who's even met him, and nobody is too broken up about it, given what they know about him. The Institute is still running smoothly, or at least as smoothly as it was before, and Elias is gone, and everyone is still adjusting to the change, but ultimately it's going well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy has started hanging around pretty much constantly, mostly sitting in silence while Basira works, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. She glares at Jon a lot, and nobody will tell him why, but he believes Basira when she says he doesn’t want to know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a little less reassuring when she says, “I’m handling it, don’t worry.” He wasn’t necessarily worried before, but being told not to worry is perhaps a bit worrying. He sees Basira and Daisy having a lot of hushed and heated conversations, and he’s certain he catches his name in there more than a few times, as well as a healthy sprinkling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not human</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>we can’t be sure,</span>
  </em>
  <span> which is also worrying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a few weeks for that tension to fade, for Daisy to start looking at Jon like she isn’t thinking about the most efficient way to kill him with whatever’s in the room. She acclimates to him like a rescue dog learning to trust somebody new – a comparison he doesn’t dare make aloud, of course. Jon finds out later that Basira spent all that time talking Daisy out of literally, actually killing him, so at the end of the day he’s pretty satisfied with the result and with the fact that he was kept in the dark about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things with Tim are difficult as well, though not nearly to the point of plotting murder. For a while, they have what Martin calls </span>
  <em>
    <span>supervised visits,</span>
  </em>
  <span> like there’s been a nasty custody battle and now they can’t be in the same room without another adult present. Which is fair, they have to admit. Martin is the perfect buffer between them, all conflict avoidance and benefit of the doubt and big round eyes that he wields with deadly precision to talk them off the ledge of an argument.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither of them mentions the conversation they had the night before the Unknowing. When Martin is there, it’s easy to breeze past it, to maneuver around it, to prevent it coming up in the natural course of conversation, but when Jon and Tim are finally able to be alone together again, it feels like a rather conspicuous gap in the topics they’re willing to discuss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it’s better than it was. Much better. They’re trying, and Jon is thankful for that, and while he isn’t sure they’ll ever be able to get back to where they once were, he feels confident that they can be friends again, and that’s what matters. All told, after about a month of adjusting to the changing dynamics and routines, everyone seems to be doing alright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only thing is, Jon thinks the tapes should be popping up more frequently. It's not like Elias has much better to do in prison than antagonize him. But he hasn't seen a single uninvited tape recorder since they got back from saving the world, and it should be a relief, but it just feels wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He brings it up one day over lunch, just casually, to see what the others think. Tim and Basira have heard it before when he's mentioned it in passing conversation, and they seem to be firmly in the "good riddance" camp. Martin, who has heard it </span>
  <em>
    <span>several</span>
  </em>
  <span> times before, is in the "please just let things be </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> for once without any caveats" camp, almost to the point of denial.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy and Melanie, on the other hand, are highly suspicious of any odd happenings that involve Elias in any capacity. Daisy bares her teeth the second Jon mentions the tapes, and Melanie narrows her eyes shrewdly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you mean, they've stopped?" she asks, speaking slowly and deliberately. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I mean they've stopped appearing," Jon repeats with emphasis. "I haven't seen any, not since he went away. I don't know why. I mean, I'm not complaining, but that's weird, right?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not that weird," interjects Martin, sounding tired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, it's fucked," Daisy counters. "Can't trust that little rat as far as I can throw him. He spends months spying on you, and suddenly decides to stop for no apparent reason? No way he's not up to something."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin grimaces, unable to disagree with her reasoning. "To be fair," he argues, "he is very small, and you are rather strong, so I think you could throw him pretty far."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy gives an exasperated sigh. "Not the point."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Maybe it's like Magneto's helmet," Tim pipes up. "Like the walls of the prison are made of some special material that blocks his freaky magic brainwaves."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It looks like Martin is genuinely considering the possibility for a moment, while everyone else is rolling their eyes at Tim. Jon dismisses the idea with a fond huff, muttering, "Not likely."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Have you tried asking him about it?" Basira says, and receives several incredulous looks in return. "What? You're his little pet project, aren't you? He might tell you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He won't see me," Jon replies ruefully. "Won't talk to me. Won't give me </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>goddamn answers."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Just you?" Melanie asks suddenly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What do you mean?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is it only you, specifically, that he refuses to see?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Er… yeah, I think so," Jon shrugs, confused. "They told me that he requested for me to be personally barred from visitations."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie perks up, a fire in her eyes. "Perfect," she says with a grin. "Then I'll go have a chat with him."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wary, Jon shakes his head. "I don't know how I feel about that."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A snort of a laugh escapes Melanie before she can stop it. "I don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span> how you feel about it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No, he's right," says Daisy. Jon is ready to thank her for being a voice of reason, but then she adds, "You shouldn't go there alone. I'll go with you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon groans and drops his head into his hands. He knows better than to try to stop Melanie and Daisy on a joint crusade; even separately, they're impossible to convince, and together they're ten times worse. He resigns himself to letting this happen, gives them his blessing by way of dropping the subject, and tries to finish his lunch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy and Melanie roll up to the prison on a rainy morning, skirting regular visiting hours using such cunning techniques as police badges, YouTube fame, and explicit threats. When the guard lets them in to see Elias, he doesn’t look surprised, but he makes a show of pretending he is, all prim smiles and polite greetings. They’re not willing to put up with it for more than a second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cut the shit,” Melanie interrupts him halfway through some inane comment about how good it is to see them. “What are you up to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Elias replies evenly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy rolls her eyes. She expects this from him, but it’s still irritating. “What are you doing with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>tapes,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bouchard?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elias, sensing that Daisy is about half a second away from punching him if he keeps up the way he’s going, chooses to answer the question. “That little game is up now, I’m afraid,” he states plainly, a tinge of regret in his tone. “I never did it with malicious intent, you must believe me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t much matter to Melanie or Daisy what his intent was, and they all know it. He’s being a bastard to try to get beneath their skin, to act so composed and so normal that it drives them crazy, but they have too much experience with this kind of manipulation. Melanie puts her hands on her hips, fixing him with a burning glare. “Why’d you stop, then?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should think Jon would be able to…” Elias pauses, hums thoughtfully before finishing with meaningful emphasis, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Know</span>
  </em>
  <span> why, if he so chose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well we’re not Jon,” Melanie retorts, refusing to entertain his creepy fixation on Jon and his freaky powers. “Humor us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t see why –” Elias’s protest is cut off with a low grunt as Daisy punches him hard in the stomach. He takes a breath, but his voice is still strained when he says, “That’s quite unnecessary –” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, he breaks off into a gasp when Melanie slaps him. His cheek reddens immediately and he narrows his eyes, seeming almost betrayed by the show of violence, looks up at her and pleads, “Must you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melanie shrugs unapologetically. “It’s fun,” she says by way of defense and explanation, “and more productive than asking you questions you refuse to answer.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Elias considers this for a long moment, apparently weighing the risk and reward of telling them what they want to hear versus getting the shit beat out of him. Predictably, he decides to use his knowledge to escape bodily harm, like the slippery snake he is. “Alright, fine,” he says through gritted teeth, clearly put off, though it’s unclear whether he’s upset by the information itself or simply the fact that he has to divulge it. “Jon’s abilities have reached a point where I can no longer… </span>
  <em>
    <span>intrude </span>
  </em>
  <span>upon situations that he would prefer to keep private. If he doesn’t want the recorder there, it won’t be there.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a long, heavy silence while the words sink in, Melanie furrows her brow and Daisy purses her lips. Eventually, Daisy simply says, “Huh. Nice one, Sims.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I mean… that’s impressive.” Melanie turns to Daisy with an air of finality. “We can go now, right? I think that’s an acceptable explanation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Daisy agrees, and they turn to go without another word or glance in Elias’s direction. He sputters a bit, indignant at being dismissed so easily, but his petulance doesn’t even register to the two women as the door slams shut behind them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, what?” Jon stares wide-eyed at Melanie, choking on his tea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what he told us, anyway,” she answers nonchalantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That I’m – what, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stronger </span>
  </em>
  <span>than him?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pretty much,” Daisy confirms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon is having trouble believing it, but he seems to be the only one. Basira has taken the revelation in stride, the way she takes everything in stride, just accepted it and moved on. Tim and Martin are… gleeful, to put it lightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t this be… I don’t know, a bad thing?” Jon chews on his lip, looking furtively between Tim and Daisy and Melanie, recalling how they’ve all been vocally, vehemently against anything that associates him with the Eye, anything that makes him more powerful, because that makes him less human in their eyes. Or so he’d thought. “I mean, you guys aren’t worried that it makes me – something bad?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think by this point we’ve got to recognize that there’s… nuance, with these things,” Melanie says, speaking slowly and diplomatically. “We’ve all got our own issues with – the powers, or whatever they are, and it’s sort of – it would be stupid, I think, to act like it’s all black and white.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Daisy and Basira and Tim all nod along as she speaks, looking agreeable and understanding and a thousand other things Jon wouldn’t have expected from them. “When you think about it,” Daisy muses thoughtfully, “I can’t pretend to be any better than you, not when I went full </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cujo </span>
  </em>
  <span>on that delivery guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, isn’t there one of those things that’s all for like, fire and destruction and shit?” Tim asks, waving his hands in the air to demonstrate his point. “Because I sure did </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoy </span>
  </em>
  <span>blowing that place to bits.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you – hold on,” Jon says, eyes closed as he tries to wrap his head around this. “Are you saying you’re alright with me being an avatar of the Eye because you’re slightly partial to the Desolation? Like we’re all on even footing now, we’ve all got our little freaky niches and we’re all okay with that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think that’s about the shape of it,” Tim shrugs. “The way I see it, if you outrank Elias, that’s unequivocally good news. Serving the Eye is one thing, but if you’re the new head bitch, that changes things a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Okay,” Jon mumbles, his brow wrinkled deeply in confusion. “Alright.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin wraps arms around Jon’s shoulders, throws his whole weight onto him and peppers kisses all over his face, muttering sweet Beholding-themed nothings. It’s cheesy and embarrassing, and Tim watches from across the table and snickers at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s my man,” Martin purrs, “all-seeing and all-knowing and everything. Brilliant, you are. I’m so proud of you, babe, you’re amazing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Squirming, Jon’s cheeks heat up rapidly, but he has to admit he appreciates the affection. He leans into Martin, turns his head into his chest to hide his face, to make him feel less exposed. He can still feel everyone else staring, but it feels less like being watched and more like being teased by his friends. It’s a good kind of embarrassment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to do something,” Tim announces, standing abruptly. Jon looks up at him and he looks like he has a plan, one that will either be very funny or very stupid, or possibly both. “I’ll be back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Tim is gone, Martin and the girls continue to poke fun at Jon, and Jon continues to pretend to be put out about it. Tim returns two minutes later, hands behind his back and a wide grin on his face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon rolls his eyes before Tim even says a word. “Oh, good lord,” he mutters, “what do you have?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waggling his eyebrows, looking extremely proud of himself, Tim presents what’s in his hands. Jon has to lean forward to see it properly, and when he does, he snorts out a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a paper hat, hastily constructed from supplies that Jon is positive Tim stole from his office, taped together crookedly, and Tim’s long, thin handwriting across the front reading </span>
  <em>
    <span>THE EYE’S HEAD BITCH.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jon opens his mouth to say something about it, but Tim cuts him off by placing the hat on his head, immediately whipping out his phone to get photographic evidence that he wore it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ,” Jon says under his breath, unable to hold back a laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You better keep that on,” Tim warns him. “It’s part of the uniform now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Jon replies, but he doesn’t move to take the hat off. He wears it for the rest of the day, and then he takes it home and puts it on a shelf in his sitting room, on display in lieu of framed pictures or art pieces.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It stays there for a long, long time, and Tim points it out with a warm smile every single time he comes over, which is rather often nowadays. In fact, Jon’s place becomes the chosen gathering grounds for weekends, drinks and movies and games.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At some point, Georgie starts joining them, trailing in with Melanie like it’s the most natural thing in the world, all bubbly and lovely and warm. Jon is unbelievably glad to have her around. Melanie is even more glad, it seems.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Georgie begins dropping by the archives now and again as well, sticking around for longer each time. Her presence, along with Daisy’s, is rather helpful when problems pop up. Problems like Jared Hopworth, who runs away with his tail between his legs, and problems like Peter Lukas, who continues to try to recruit Martin to do… something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Having a contingent of rational voices and the power of their numbers means that the archives staff and their friends are all but unstoppable. Peter waxes some poetic bullshit about solitude, and Martin tells him in no uncertain terms that he rather likes his current state of non-solitude, and Peter grumbles off to his office like a scolded child. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s still the issue of being tied to the Institute, but they find that it isn’t so much of an issue without Elias around, trying to advance his evil plots. They just do their jobs, and sometimes they don’t do their jobs, but for the most part it’s fairly harmless. Statements and follow-up interviews and the like, just like it used to be, back when they started working down here, before it was messed up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From here, it looks like everything might be alright. It looks like everyone might be okay, like they might be able to just keep going like this for a while, like there’s no mystery to solve for once. It looks like they can relax, like they can stop being afraid all the time. It looks like this is a happy ending.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Jon is the Eye's head bitch, after all, so he tends to trust his vision.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>